


Closer to the Ground

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Dog Will, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, M/M, Pre-Slash, Season/Series 01, Someone Help Will Graham, Will Finds Out, Will Gets Turned Into A Dog, Winston is MVP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:14:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25837081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: Will becomes a dog for twenty-four hours. That's not even the weirdest thing to happen that day.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 73
Kudos: 653





	Closer to the Ground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [itakethewords (Itakethewords)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itakethewords/gifts).



> A prompt for @itakethewords, who wanted Will getting turned into a dog and Hannibal dealing with that. Enjoy Hannibal being an absolute dumbass and Will being Done with everything.
> 
> Here's Will's dog breed - the Estrela Mountain Dog, picture six: https://www.akc.org/dog-breeds/estrela-mountain-dog/

_Something's wrong._

Will registers this absently, in that haze of half-awareness between being awake and being asleep. His joints hurt, but that isn't anything unusual. He's sweaty, or at least he's damp, and there's a smell that he certainly hopes isn't a result of the dogs pissing on the bed.

He rolls onto his stomach, grimacing at the cling of sweat-damp blankets to his body, and stretches as best he can, gritting his teeth as he feels his shoulder scream in protest. He must have been tossing and turning all night.

The second clue that something is very, very wrong comes when he tries to sit up.

Because sitting turns out to be…difficult.

Will frowns, sleep-addled mind working to reconcile the fact that he's trying to touch his face but it feels like Winston is pawing at him, or something, because there's dog fur everywhere and when he licks his lips he gets a big whiff of dog-scent and a mouthful of hair, and -.

He has hair on his arm.

He has _fur_ on his arm.

Will stares, very quietly and resolutely, down at his hand, which has currently taken the shape of a dog's paw. He tries to curl his fingers and watches the claws flex instead. When he moves his wrist, so too does the dog arm.

"Well, fuck," Will says, and he hears a dog's soft woof instead.

Getting up from the bed is still very much a difficult affair, trying to negotiate four legs instead of two legs and two arms, and a – yep, there's a tail involved here, too – and the fact that he's suddenly not even as tall as his own dining room table.

 _This is a dream_ , he tells himself.

 _No, it's not_ , another part of him replies.

Will manages to figure out his four paws and shakes himself loose, panting because he's still overheated and sweaty and sore. He feels twitching on the top of his head and realizes he's putting his ears back. That he _can_ put his ears back.

He whines, quietly.

That draws the attention of his dogs, finally. Really, they're sweet animals but they're useless as guard dogs. Winston lifts his head first, and tilts it towards Will as though just as surprised to see Will four-legged and fluffy as Will is. His tail gives a single, unsure swish.

Will wets his nose, and Winston gets up from his place on the edge of the pack of dogs, trotting over. He isn't being hostile, which is good – maybe Will still smells enough like The Human to him that Winston gets what's going on.

He gets a single headbutt to his shoulder, Winston's tail wagging a little more earnestly. Will's own tail twitches in answer, and Winston grins at him.

Will can't talk, and he's not exactly sure how to 'speak' dog, but if Winston isn't growling and barking at him then the rest of the pack will probably be relatively well-behaved. Will needs to figure out what the Hell is going on.

He pads over to the front door, first, and rears up onto his hindlegs. And almost lands on his ass for the trouble. He huffs, and gets to his feet. It takes him longer than he'd like to admit; who knew he would take even the limited mobility of his injured shoulder for granted. He can only really move his arms – forelegs – front and back with a limited range to the side, which makes things like stopping himself from falling sideways practically impossible.

Behind him, he thinks he might hear Buster laughing at him. Little shit.

He pushes himself up again and, between his paws and his teeth, manages to twist the door handle and shove the door open. The dogs all stir, at the sound of it opening, and while a few of them give this strange new dog curious looks, they run out into the field happily enough.

Will huffs. Useless.

Winston remains on the porch, apparently content to remain with Will, or at least near him, while he figures himself out. Will turns away and yawns, wincing when his jaw cracks, _loudly_ , and settles into place again. Whatever this transformation is, it's not the neatest thing in the world.

He walks through the main room in his house, getting used to things like balancing his weight and not stepping on his forelegs with his back legs – he can see himself wiping out by moving too fast – and countering the shift in center of gravity, as well as the extra weight and balance of his tail and his head outside of the circle of his body.

It feels weird, and he's not exactly picking it up fast, too sore and sleepy and trying very hard not to freak the fuck out.

His downstairs bathroom door is open, and he nudges it with his muzzle to get it to open all the way, and jumps up to flick the light on. The fan above his head chitters to life with a concerning series of coughs. Will can't look up at it, which he realizes when he tries. Even when he sits – and that's an adventure in figuring out which joints bend which way – it's a strain to look directly up.

The noise isn't pleasant, and gives him a headache.

He shakes his head, snuffling, and pushes himself up to his hindlegs again, flopping down on the bathroom sink and lifting to his very toes so that he can get a glimpse of this nightmare once and for all.

It is definitely a dog that looks back at him. He's got a similar head shape to Charlie, the Bernese Mountain Dog, but fewer discernible markings. His fur is all mottled brown, the same color as his hair is normally, and his ears are floppy enough to fold in half.

They perk up when he looks at them.

Will sighs, and puts his head down on the sink. Well then.

He pushes himself away and bumps his nose into the light switch, hoping the fan will turn off soon because, really, that noise is so irritating. He has no idea how the dogs stand it, and resolves to get it looked at when this is over and he's back to normal.

Assuming, of course, he does go back to normal.

A small half-circle as he figures out how to move and work with his new body tells him he's quite a large dog and relatively shaggy, though that doesn't surprise him, assuming the transformation has any influence based on what he looked like as a human. He had brown fluffy hair, so he's a brown fluffy dog. Stands to reason.

That's about the only part of this morning that makes sense.

Will sits down in the middle of his living room and stares at the dog beds, for lack of anywhere else to stare. He's no longer tall enough to reach the windows so he can stare out of those, and the dog beds do take up a significant amount of staring space.

Still not convinced this isn't a dream, Will considers his options. People don't spontaneously transform into dogs, as far as he's aware. Which means something _happened_ to him. What a way to find out magic and werewolves are real, if that's the case.

He sighs, and licks his muzzle. And immediately snuffs again, shaking himself out. That's weird, and the feeling of his own tongue shoving itself right into his nose is deeply uncomfortable.

His ears perk up when Winston returns, leading the rest of Will's pack. Again, most of them seem completely unbothered by the lack of human Will and the sudden appearance of dog Will, and he wonders, absently, if they even register it as odd at all. He's just a little shorter and shaggier than normal.

Winston sits next to him, as though lending moral support through this difficult time.

Will sighs, and stands. He needs to figure this out. If something happened to him, if someone _did this_ to him, then he needs to figure out who, and how, and most importantly, how to reverse it. Thankfully, he still seems in control of all his human faculties, which means he understands things like where the food is, how to get to it, and the subtle workings of a phone.

He goes into his kitchen and carefully opens one of the cabinets where he keeps the dry dog food. He doesn't like feeding his pack this, mostly because there's few ways to know what's truly in it, and it's not healthy for dogs to eat so much grain, so he prefers to make their food himself, but he doesn't have thumbs right now, let alone the ability to use a stove, so this will have to do.

He reaches in and sinks his teeth around the seal of the bag, yanking it out of the cabinet with a series of grunts, and, for lack of anything else to do, he braces one paw on the bag and yanks it open, ripping a large hole in the bag. Immediately hundreds of tiny brown bits spill out and onto the floor. Will takes the bottom of the bag and upends it, scattering more on the floor, before he shoves the half-emptied bag back in the cabinet and nudges it closed.

He stares at his dogs as they nose and lick at the floor, internally grimacing. He hopes he isn't like this for so long that they get used to eating shit off the floor like a bunch of uncultured animals. He can only imagine how much of a pain in the ass it would be to retrain them to sit and wait for him to feed them.

He trots out of the kitchen and leaves them to figure out their food amongst themselves. His phone is on his bedside table, and he nudges it off the side and onto the floor, turning it with one delicate claw so that the screen is facing up.

He considers his phone, thanking God and also laziness that he has yet to upgrade to a model that doesn't have the home button. He lays down and very carefully pushes the pad of his toe against the home button, making the screen light up. He tries to push in his passcode but his toes are too thick for just one button to register at a time, and after several attempts, he realizes he's going to lock himself out if he keeps trying.

Will huffs in frustration.

He can't even talk, so he can't make the phone call someone without using his hands. _Damn it,_ he thinks to himself, very emphatically. Behind him, the dogs have finished behaving like savages, and are beginning their usual mill about for the day.

He needs to go see _someone_. Who would he even call? Jack wouldn't look at this and come to the conclusion that Will had been turned into a dog. Alana is currently avoiding him, so even if he could call her he doubts she'd answer, or linger around long enough for Will to explain the situation.

How does one even explain being turned into a dog.

He looks towards the front door, which is still hanging open. It's cold outside, but he only feels it distantly, like condensation on a glass instead of a biting chill wind cutting through his skin and into his chest. Advantages of having thick fur, he supposes.

Winston is still on the porch, or he went back to the porch after eating, Will can't be sure. Will walks out and sits down next to him, and Winston gives him a very calm, understanding look. And suddenly Will feels like they're old war buddies reliving stores from the foxhole. Which is ridiculous and even if Winston is trying to be supportive, he's a dog and Will's a human.

Will stares out across the field, to the tree line. There's still snow on the ground, and around Will's house in a wide circle there are tracks and mud and slush, from the dogs. There's a set of furrows from Will's car to and from the main road.

Will stares, and considers. They're between cases, as far as he knows, so Jack isn't due to show up and bang down his door any time soon. And it's another two days before he has an appointment with Hannibal, so there's not going to be another 'You missed our appointment' visit until then.

Will huffs, and licks his nose, and then yawns. His jaw _hurts_ , Jesus, and his feet are cold even with the thick padding on his toes and the fur protecting them.

Winston eyes him, and wags his tail. It feels like an encouraging gesture. At least, Will chooses to interpret it that way. Winston nudges him behind his shoulder, forcing Will to stumble down the step, and when Will looks back, Winston is on his feet and standing in front of the door.

 _I'll hold down the fort_ , the gesture seems to say. _You go get help_.

And Will doesn't like the idea of leaving his house open and all the dogs getting out, and he certainly doesn't like the idea of leaving the house at all, because he has no idea how long this change will last, if he'll turn back halfway down the highway and get arrested for indecent exposure, or if he'll wake up and it'll be the middle of the night again and this was all some bizarre dream.

But he knows, one way or another, there's someone that can help him figure it out.

He knows how to get to Hannibal's office. Less familiar with the route to his house, but the sun is rising and if nothing else Will can wait on the steps for Hannibal to arrive.

He looks back at Winston, who has the audacity to look impatient. He sits in front of the door and fixes Will with a very unimpressed look.

Will can't roll his eyes as a dog, but he certainly tries.

Hannibal isn't at his office by the time Will gets there, even though it takes him several hours, sprinting as fast and directly as he's able without drawing any attention from an SPCA or getting hit by a Goddamn car.

Will sits down on the step outside the door to the patients' entrance, that he normally goes through, and settles down to wait. He doesn't expect Hannibal to come in this way, but someone will eventually, and Will can get in and get Hannibal's attention somehow and, he doesn't know, put a pencil in his mouth and attempt some kind of written communication or something. At this point he doesn't know what to do but any step has to be a step forward.

He sighs heavily, his nose stinging. The air is cold and it feels like the only places he really feels it are his paws, his nose, and his eyes. Licking his nose helps but that's still not a sensation he's used to and doesn't particularly want to get used to. And the stinging in his nose isn't helped by how much more sensitive it is.

He can smell the dirt, the grass, the lingering gasoline and drip of heat units in the parking lot from cars. The dust in the vent on the side of the building where cool air is pumped out. He can smell some other dog's shit in the grass behind the parking lot where a human didn't clean it up. He can smell the other dog, and squirrels too, and the scent mark of what he assumes is a stray cat.

It hurts his nose like going from silence to shrieking machine static, and he's not sure if dogs can get migraines but he might as well be the first.

His ears twitch at the sound of an approaching car, and he lifts his head from where he had been curled up in a ball of misery on the steps outside the patients' entrance. He lets out a sigh of relief as he spots the familiar contours of Hannibal's Bentley, which looks closer to slate grey than blue thanks to the fact that he's now colorblind. He certainly hopes that doesn't remain, after he gets changed back.

Hannibal emerges from his car, and even colorblind Will can tell that whatever he's wearing is ridiculously patterned and attention-grabbing. He has a coat but he's not wearing it, instead folding it over his arm as he locks the Bentley door and heads towards the building, keys in his hand.

Will debates running in front of him and intercepting. He's cold and wants to go inside, but he's not sure Hannibal would take lightly to that, and he would be more curious about a dog that just happened to be in his patient room than one that ran up to him outside.

A dog that can make its way in and make itself comfortable is a curiosity. Anything else is just another stray.

Hannibal disappears from sight as he rounds the corner to enter through the main door, and Will sighs, and settles down to wait for his first patient of the day.

Will doesn't have to wait long, thank God. The sun has come up and it's getting warmer but he's still shivering when the first person arrives. He's dressed well, with a round face and thick, dark hair, as well as neatly trimmed facial hair just visible between his cap and his scarf. His hands are dug into the pockets of his coat, his head down as he hurries towards the patient door.

Will gets up and sits in front of the door, and the man freezes in place, eyes widening when he sees Will. "Oh!" he exclaims. "Hello there."

Will puts on his best friendly face, which is slightly easier when one's face is a dog, and makes his tail wag.

The man approaches and holds his hand out to sniff. Will makes a show of doing so, and picks up the scent of cologne and hand lotion and, faintly, cheese. He licks his muzzle and whines when the man looks at the door.

"You must be cold," the man says, mouth twisting in guilty indecision. Will isn't cold, at least not _that_ cold, but he doesn't have a problem playing it up if it gets him inside. The man bites his lower lip and eyes the door behind Will.

He sighs, and steps past Will, opening the door – which is unlocked. Will huffs. He could have opened it his damn self, if he'd known that. "Come on," the man says, gently nudging Will inside with a hand on his scruff. Will resists the urge to growl at him, and instead runs in and jumps onto the couch in the corner of the room.

The man stares at Will, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he considers Will and all his shedding glory on the fancy leather couch – a couch which Will admits he takes great delight in shedding on, if only because he's curious what Hannibal's reaction will be.

"Um…," he says. How eloquent. Will curls up on himself and puts his eyes on the door.

His ears perk forward as he hears footsteps approaching. That even gait, the sharp click of shoes on expensive hardwood. The second door to Hannibal's office opens, revealing the man himself, and Will lifts his head.

Hannibal smiles at the man who let Will in, first, cordial and polite. Then, his gaze snaps to Will. He doesn't visibly react, except to slightly tilt his head. Will grins at him, tail wagging once.

Hannibal looks back to the stranger. "A friend of yours, Franklyn?" he asks.

"He was sitting outside," Franklyn says, deeply apologetic as he shrugs off his coat and scarf. He gestures towards Will. "I wasn't sure if he belonged to anyone, or if maybe you'd know whose he was. Since he seemed to be…waiting here for someone."

"Waiting," Hannibal repeats.

"I thought maybe he might belong to a patient of yours," Franklyn continues. His heart rate is elevated and his scent is somewhat sour with distress. Will licks at his nose and huffs. He slides down from the couch and walks up to Hannibal.

Then, past him, through the doorway. He jumps up on the little couch Hannibal has set up between his two regular chairs, the soft fabric and cushioning squishing beneath his paws. He curls up and fixes Hannibal with an expectant look.

Hannibal considers him, and then turns back to Franklyn. Finally, he steps to one side, letting the other man in. "Perhaps we should call animal control," he suggests. "I don't recognize the animal, nor can I recall any patient of mine mentioning owning one."

Animal control. Will has very personal feelings about that, and not just because he happens to be an _animal_ himself. His upper lip lifts, muzzle wrinkling in a disgruntled snarl that catches Hannibal's attention.

Hannibal smiles at him. "Perhaps our new arrival is an escaped convict."

Franklyn laughs, more like a nervous giggle, as he takes a seat in the patient chair. The one not facing the door, nor the clock above it. Will knows Hannibal puts it up there so that he can check the time without being obvious about it. Hannibal would never be so rude as to make a patient feel _rushed_.

"I don't think that'll be necessary," Franklyn says. He sits in the chair like he doesn't quite understand how to fit in it. Will eyes him curiously, weighing how tensed and hunched he is compared with Hannibal's lax posture. It's novel to be the one doing the observing for a change, even though he feels slightly guilty over listening in on confidential therapy sessions.

But it's not like he can climb the ladder to give them some privacy, or plug his ears.

He does his best to tune out the men's conversation, wondering how he'll get Hannibal's attention and communicate that he is, in fact, Will Graham, and in dire need of help. He hasn't entirely ruled out the idea that this is a dream, or that he won't spontaneously change back at some point during the day.

But the hour goes on and he listens to Franklyn's nervous and disjointed rambling, ear twitching whenever Hannibal answers him with some insight that Will doesn't think Franklyn truly understands. Hannibal has this knack of saying a lot of words without saying anything at all, pseudo-deep. Not stupid, and he choose his bullshit as carefully as his wardrobe, but sometimes it's all flash and nothing of real substance.

Some people don't need substance, they just need someone to listen to them.

The hour passes, and Hannibal straightens in his seat, drawing Will's attention. "I'll see you next week, Franklyn," Hannibal says, and his voice is kind and calm and makes Will's tail twitch, swishing once.

Franklyn nods, knowing when he's being dismissed. "Do you need me to…take the dog?" he asks, gesturing to Will, who has no intention of leaving, thank you very much. He hopes his unimpressed huff and slightly wrinkled muzzle gets the point across. He can feel his ears twitching backwards on top of his skull, fur ruffling a little between his shoulder blades.

"No, I can handle it," Hannibal assures him. "Thank you, Franklyn. Have a good rest of your day."

"Okay, Doctor Lecter. Bye!" And the door closes with a finality that makes Will wince a little, in sympathy.

Hannibal turns and regards him. Will stares right back, and Hannibal tilts his head, approaching slowly. "Now, what are we to do with you?" he murmurs. Will's ears tilt forward and he licks his nose, tail wagging slowly from side to side.

Hannibal's hands flatten on Will's cheeks, running down his neck. Checking for a collar, which of course he doesn't find. Hannibal's lips purse, and he gently feels along Will's scruff and between his shoulders, pinching skin. Will has taken enough dogs to the vet to know what being checked for a chip looks like.

He bears it all patiently, and when Hannibal releases him, Will jumps down from the couch and walks over to his desk. Hannibal follows immediately and grabs Will by the back of the neck, gentling 'tsk'ing him.

"No," he says, sharply. Will glares at his shoes. Hannibal sighs.

Will can practically hear the wheels turning in Hannibal's head. It's an interesting experience, watching him deal with something unexpected. Hannibal releases his neck and Will huffs at him, sitting and staring and wondering if it's physically possible to think something loud enough that the other person picks it up.

Hannibal meets his gaze unblinkingly. His head tilts. "I'm afraid you can't stay here," he tells Will, as though Will isn't a dog and can understand what he means. Which, he can, but Hannibal doesn't _know_ that. "But I know someone who is very good at taking care of dogs, whom you may be more comfortable with."

Will blinks at him.

Is Hannibal seriously going to…take him _home_?

Will would laugh, except he's not sure a dog laugh can truly express irony.

There's not much he can do about it. If he puts up too much of a fight, as much as the idea of Hannibal trying to chase him down would be hilarious, Hannibal might simply call animal control and Will would be taken away. Put in a cage. If this change is permanent, then there's no way in _Hell_ he's going to let that happen.

So he watches as Hannibal packs up his notes on Franklyn and goes when Hannibal ushers him into the waiting area, locking the office door behind him. Hannibal pulls his phone out, and Will lets himself be led towards Hannibal's Bentley, and gets into the backseat when Hannibal opens the door and nudges him inside.

His ears perk up at Hannibal's voice; "Will? Please give me a call back when you can." How straightforward. Will huffs. He's not going to get a callback any time soon.

Hannibal gets into the car and angles the mirror so that he can see Will. Will lays down on the backseat; he's sure this isn't going to be a fun drive for him, if the times he's had any of his dogs in the car is any indication. They seem physically incapable of not sliding all over the place even when he takes the turns slowly.

"I'm sorry," Hannibal tells him, as he pulls out of the parking lot and merges with traffic. "You simply can't stay in my office. I have no means to take care of you properly."

Will blinks, resting his head on his forelegs. Does Hannibal always talk to animals like they are perfectly capable of understanding what he's saying? It's…strangely endearing. And it's soothing a little fissure of uneasiness he hadn't realized was in his skull until it had been soothed.

Hannibal speaking to him like he's not an animal, even when he doesn't _know_ it's Will, reminds Will that he's still himself. The outside is different, and hopefully reversible, but he's still of sound mind and relatively sound body, and that's a really good thing to remember when he inevitably has to start shitting in the woods.

The journey back to Will's house is much shorter than when Will ran to Hannibal's office, but still feels like it takes forever. The classical music station Hannibal has playing is full of soothing flutes and trilling violins, and the air is warm and soaks into Will's fur like solid sunlight.

He senses the change in Hannibal's demeanor when they approach the house. Hannibal's heartbeat doesn't quicken, but his scent changes, subtly, from something vaguely clean and iron-like to a subtle sourness, like bitter cherries.

Will lifts his head to see that Winston had apparently decided that some supervised outdoor fun was allowed. He's still on the porch, watching Will's pack attentively, but the front door is open and all the dogs are outside.

Hannibal pulls up behind Will's car and stops the engine. Will pushes himself to his feet as Hannibal gets out of the car and opens the door, and immediately Will runs up and nudges Winston in thanks. Winston woofs at him gently, tail swishing from side to side.

Hannibal passes them both, with an absent pat to Winston's head. Will follows him inside, ears perked up as he hears his own phone ringing shrilly, vibrating across the floor where Will left it.

Hannibal circles his bed, frowning down at the phone. He hangs up and it stops ringing. He pockets his phone.

"Will?" Hannibal hazards.

Will jumps up on his bed and fixes Hannibal with a very meaningful look. But Hannibal isn't looking at him. Will doesn't exactly want to bark at him, and he's not even sure he could make the right noise for it, but if Hannibal is going to be this dense then he might not have a choice.

"Will?" Hannibal calls again, walking towards the stairs. Will huffs and runs after him, shoving his nose against Hannibal's hand and forcing a rumbling noise from his throat. "Yes, it's alright," Hannibal soothes, petting his head. "Will?"

Jesus Christ. Will sits and glares at Hannibal's shoes and wonders if biting Hannibal might get the point across.

"Will?" Hannibal tries, one more time, and he has his phone back out. He still has his hand on Will's head, lightly patting him in a way no one who has ever owned an animal pets dogs, and Will huffs, shakes himself off, and takes a step back so that he's out of reach.

"Jack? Yes, I'm sorry for disturbing you. I'm at Will's home. Is he at a crime scene with you?" A pause. Hannibal's lips turn down in a slight frown. "Well, his door was open and his dogs all set loose. And his cell phone is here."

As Hannibal speaks, he goes back to Will's bed and crouches down to pick up the phone. He presses on the home button and frowns at the screen. "There are some missed calls," he reports. "Yes, I see yours." Will tilts his head. So Jack did try to call him. "And there's one from someone saved as…a rather unsavory nickname. I assume a fellow professor."

Will grins.

"So no one has heard from him today?" Hannibal asks, lowering Will's phone and lifting his eyes to the door. "Yes, perhaps that would be best. I'll see you soon." It's fascinating watching Hannibal's demeanor change from concerned and confused to downright suspicious. It changes his face, makes his shoulder appear stiffer, more tense. Will watches Hannibal eye the scene like he might, at his own crime, and wonders if he looks so calculating when he does it.

Probably not. By virtue of his ability, he can't be removed from what he sees like Hannibal can.

He watches Hannibal prowl through the room, checking the windows and doors. Nothing broken open, no window that has been painted shut now sporting a broken seal. No visible weapon nor evidence of an attack.

Will blinks when he watches Hannibal come to Will's bed, take a handful of his sweaty sheets, and inhale deeply. God, he's so fucking weird.

But Hannibal must smell something, because he frowns, and releases the sheet. His eyes gravitate to Will, who meets his eyes steadily. Hannibal tilts his head and Will mimics him from his place by the bed. "You were here already, weren't you?" he asks.

Will rumbles, softly, tail wagging.

"And you came to get me when you realized something was wrong." Hannibal nods in understanding, and smiles. "You're very intelligent. Bravo."

Will stares at him.

 _Are you kidding me_.

Hannibal sighs. "Jack will be here soon," he tells Will. "I'm sure there's nothing to worry about."

He sits on Will's bed, comfortable as anything. He moves with a familiarity in Will's space that Will isn't sure what to do with, as though he's been here far more often than the few times Will asked him to come in and feed the dogs.

He supposes that can wait, until he has thumbs and a working human speech pattern again. He busies himself with going back outside and herding the dogs in with Winston, making sure they're all settled and aren't going to go running off into the woods.

What he needs to do, he thinks to himself, is make Hannibal understand that he is not _missing_. Getting Jack involved and sending him off on a wild goose chase is just going to create headaches when Will 'turns back up'. Assuming he does. Assuming he doesn't just become some cold case somewhere.

He doesn't want that to happen, if nothing else then because he doesn't know what's going to happen to his dogs.

He has some papers on his dining room table, as well as journals tucked into the bookshelves, both of which he could draw or write on. The problem will be finding a pen. He doesn't have one in easy reach on the table, and if Hannibal sees him and decides he's making too much of a mess he might intervene again.

Will huffs, trotting over to the dining table. He jumps up on the chair and carefully reaches out with one paw, dragging the pile of papers towards him. Thankfully, there is a pen on top of the stack. Will tilts his head and negotiates his muzzle along the pen, gripping it as delicately as possible while he tries to figure out the new dimensions on his face.

He drags the pen up so the point is resting against the paper. He can't see, at all, and trying to drag the pen along the loose papers is more of a challenge than he anticipated. But he tries his best, and ends up with a lot of lines that… _could_ suggest the word 'WILL'. If he squints.

He takes the pen and tries again, below. Okay, the second time looks a little less like it was done by a, well, a dog. Will sets the pen down and turns in the chair, seeing that Hannibal hasn't moved. He barks, or tries to bark. It comes out as a little half-woof like his dogs do when they're not quite sure if they will get yelled at for barking or not.

Hannibal turns, however, at the sound of it. Will wags his tail in encouragement and woofs again, nosing at the papers as Hannibal stands and approaches. He frowns down at the marked sheet, and tuts in disapproval.

Will woofs, and noses at his hand for emphasis.

"…Will?" Hannibal hazards. Will wags his tail harder and bobs his head. Hannibal smiles. "Will taught you his name. That's a good trick."

Will stares at him. If he was physically capable of doing it, he would put his head in his hands and rub through to his brain. Hannibal might possibly be the stupidest smart person he's ever met. He thinks it's a Goddamn _trick_?

Jesus.

Will noses at the paper again more stubbornly, and Hannibal sighs and scruffs him again, gently pulling him off the chair and to the floor. He sets the paper back down. "I hope Will is able to print off a copy to replace the one you marked," he says, scolding. Will wrinkles his muzzle in irritation and growls at Hannibal's shoe.

"Now, now," Hannibal says, soothingly, and gently pets between Will's ears. Even with Will's irritation, he can admit that that feels…kind of nice. Hannibal has always been tactile with him, and apparently that extends to dogs, and Will can feel his ears go lax on top of his head, his raised fur between his shoulders smoothing under Hannibal's hand. "I know you're worried. I am too, but we'll find him."

Will might actually bite him if he doesn't get with the program soon.

Will huffs, and Hannibal straightens as the sound of tires crunching through snow and slush become audible through the closed door and windows. Will's pack stirs as well – there are so many visitors today, it must be exciting for them. Hannibal parts from Will with one more pat to his head and approaches the door. Will follows.

"Agent Crawford," Hannibal greets.

"Doctor Lecter," Will hears Jack say in answer. Jack's shadow falls through the doorway, merging with Hannibal's. Jack smells of paper and coffee, and the outside air mixes with both of them.

"So there's no one in the house?" Jack asks, as they both head inside. Will moves onto the bed and glares at both of them. Acting like he's not even here, because to them, he's not. It's aggravating in a different way than how he's treated at a crime scene. At least there, he's somewhat of a spectacle, and not ignored.

"Not that I can tell," Hannibal replies, shaking his head. "And it doesn't seem like there has been for a while. I found Will's phone by his bed, but nothing else. As you can see, his car is still outside."

Jack nods, pressing his lips together.

"I haven't been here long," Hannibal adds. "Perhaps there is something I might have missed."

 _Yeah_ , Will thinks venomously.

Jack looks at Will, and his brows rise. "This is a new one."

"A rather intelligent new stray, yes," Hannibal agrees. "He was outside my office this morning. I assumed he was a stray, and brought him here, which is how I discovered Will was gone in the first place." He pauses, and adds; "We might not have known for quite some time, otherwise."

Jack hums. "Alright. I'll have a look around," he says. Will bristles. He doesn't particularly relish the thought of Jack _or_ Hannibal snooping around his house and getting into all his stuff, especially when there isn't going to be anything to find.

In one last ditch attempt to get anything through their heads, he jumps over and takes the sheet of paper still clasped in Hannibal's hand. It tears in his teeth and he growls in frustration, taking his half and shoving it into Jack's hip.

"What -?" Jack frowns down at him, and takes the paper.

"Will trained him how to write his name," Hannibal explains, showing Jack the second half of the paper. "It's quite remarkable, really. A testament to that same intelligence that bid him seek me out when Will went missing."

Jack's frown deepens, as he considers the paper. He huffs, and gives Will a pat on the head. "Good job."

Will might bite them both.

Will has to sit on the porch lest he lose his fucking mind at the sheer stupidity of two people he considered some of the smartest he'd ever met. Okay, sure, one might not _immediately_ leap to the conclusion that your friend had been turned into a dog, even after said dog showed up on your doorstep or wrote his name on some paper.

But short of writing an entire Goddamn essay in the snow, Will isn't sure what else to do. He stares out at the field, Winston by his side in a gesture of solidarity, and considers how long he might have to write 'To Whom It May Concern' before Hannibal scolds him again.

Winston sighs, heavily, beside him, breath misting in the cool air. Will eyes him, and wonders if Winston ever feels this resigned to the stupidity of The Humans.

Probably. He's a pretty smart dog.

Will looks up as Hannibal emerges from the house. He smells of fresh meat and Winston starts wagging his tail wildly, and sits, attentive, ears forward. Hannibal smiles, and tosses him a piece of what smells like sausage. Will can smell grease and warm metal and the specific afterscent of gas.

Hannibal cooked. In Will's own Goddamn house.

And he seems to have done it before, if the practiced and familiar way he crouches down and feeds Winston is any indication. Will tilts his head and considers him, when Hannibal meets his eyes. "Are you hungry?" he asks, and offers a piece.

Yes, Will is hungry, but he's not sure he should be eating out of his friend's hand. Dog or not, if Will ever turns back, or if Hannibal ever figures out who he is, then that's going to make things awkward.

But it smells good, he can admit that, and he doesn't want the food to go to waste. He stares at Hannibal until Hannibal gets the idea, and nods to himself, putting the sausage pieces on the ground. Will loses one to Winston, but he doesn't mind, and tries not to think about the weird taste of the wet porch amidst the meat.

Hannibal rests a hand on his shoulder, and Will hears Jack approaching. "We'll need to contact anyone he might have gone to," Jack says. "I don't see any signs of breaking and entering, or foul play. It looks like he just got up and left."

"His car is here," Hannibal points out, "and I don't see any human footprints in the snow aside from ours."

"He could have gotten picked up."

Hannibal hums, but says nothing to that.

"I'll start reaching out," Jack says, his voice suddenly quiet. Will can't look directly up at either of their faces, even when he sits, so he can't tell what expression is on Hannibal's face to make Jack suddenly sound so reassuring. "We'll find him, Hannibal. We'll figure it out."

Hannibal says nothing, again, but Will notices that his fingers curl a little tight in Will's fur.

"I guess I should call someone about these dogs," Jack adds, sighing. "If we don't have a timeline of when he'll be back -."

"I'll take them," Hannibal says, without hesitation. Will huffs in surprise, tilting his head up, staring as Hannibal runs his hand up behind Will's ear, gently scratching at the base. It sends a sharp tremor down Will's spine, making his tail wag wildly, and he arches up to get more of it. He knows Hannibal is smiling, too, the bastard.

Jack sounds incredulous when he says; "All of them?"

"Of course," Hannibal replies. "I have plenty of room, and they are already familiar with me. It won't be an issue. I can keep them as long as necessary until Will's safe return."

Will's still very annoyed that Hannibal doesn't seem able to put two and two together, but he can't deny that it's really nice to hear that. Like it's easy, to take in all of Will's dogs and keep them safe. And the scritches he's getting certainly help.

Jack nods. "Alright. I'll help you transport them. They won't all fit in your Bentley."

"No," Hannibal says, quiet and amused. "Thank you, Jack."

Will has been to Hannibal's house a few times, for dinner, or the beginnings of dinner parties he always bows out of early, and even once for an impromptu session that wasn't a session, when Will was dead tired and didn't feel like driving any farther than Hannibal's house, which is a solid twenty minutes in traffic closer to Wolf Trap than his office.

He has not been to Hannibal's house, obviously, as a dog who is expected to live here and be good and housetrained and not actually _talk_ to Hannibal. What is he even like, when he's alone? Will has very deliberately not given it any thought, because for him thoughts very rarely stay thoughts.

But now he's here, getting an unfiltered peak behind the curtain.

It feels like spying.

But it's not his fault Hannibal is too caught in the practical to believe the impossible.

Most of the dogs are perfectly content being led into the backyard and set loose. Will doesn't see any shelter for them, but Hannibal keeps the door leading to the patio open, and the patio is covered so there's no snow there, and it feels warm enough once Hannibal lays down some blankets and dog beds from the trunk of Jack's car.

Will deems it satisfactory, for now, but he still doesn't go outside with the rest of the dogs. He needs to figure out how to convince Hannibal that he's actually _himself_ , and not some dog who happens to be very smart and intuitive.

So he follows Hannibal from room to room, watching as Hannibal lays out additional dog beds in his study. He huffs in amusement as Hannibal pulls out a bunch of large sheets, like those used to protect furniture from paint, from a closet and covers the couches with them. Because that's definitely something someone normal just has handy.

It appears that the study is going to be the dogs' indoor home. Will appreciates that, and wishes he could say as much. Hannibal doesn't even seem to mind Will hanging around, watching him like a second shadow.

Will licks his nose and considers him. He doesn't want to make a mess in Hannibal's house, but the pen and paper trick clearly didn't make the impression Will wanted it to, and he doesn't see any pens or paper reachable from his thigh-height view of the world.

He turns, padding into the kitchen and snuffling noisily along the bottom of the cabinets as he searches for something spillable that he can track through and write on. Something easy access that's not too difficult to clean up – he's not _really_ an asshole.

He's circling the kitchen island when he feels it. Feels, and smells – a small gust of clean, fresh air. Filtered, that stings his nose. And the scent of blood and chemicals. His ears go back and his tail lowers, unsure. He tilts his head and eyes the source of the new smell.

It smells like – well, like Hannibal, that makes sense. But it doesn't smell like his shoes, or mud, or the same it would as if Hannibal just passed by this area and there was a crawlspace beneath the floor. Will whines softly, curiously, pawing at the floor.

"What's the matter?" Hannibal's voice makes Will tense up, and he lifts his head, licking his nose again when he sees Hannibal approach. He can feel himself lowering to the ground, almost avoiding Hannibal's hand. Hannibal's head tilts, and he crouches down to gently scratch between Will's shoulders. "There's nothing down there," he says, and pats Will's head, before standing again. "Come on, let's get you and your friends settled in."

Will stares after him, as he rounds the corner and heads towards the back patio and garden where he left the rest of the pack. He takes a step to follow, and feels the cool air against his paw again, through a tiny crack in the wood.

He leans down, sniffing at the gap. There is definitely _something_ down there. The undersides of houses don't just smell like blood, and Will would bet money that there's a basement in this place. So there's something there, he's sure of it.

He doesn't have any fucking _thumbs_ , but maybe he can figure out how to get down there, one way or the other, once Hannibal is asleep.

Will doesn't know if this is normal for Hannibal, staying up late in the study and nursing wine and reading or working on one of his sketches or equations, but if it is normal, he doesn't seem to mind the sudden presence of eight additional warm bodies in here with him.

Will is on the couch opposite Hannibal, watching him work. Winston has no issue being on the couch with Hannibal, curled up tight to his flank and shedding brindle fur all over his fancy suit pants and shirt as Hannibal idly pets his flank or sleek head.

 _Traitor_ , Will thinks.

He's not sure if he wants to be over there instead, or just doesn't want Winston there. It would be weird; he's still got his own head, so laying down next to his friend and getting pet while Hannibal does whatever he's doing is _definitely_ weird. But he feels weird watching Hannibal do it to someone else, too.

And whenever Hannibal looks up, Will feels his tail twitch in a happy little wag, that gets worse when Hannibal smiles.

He hopes that's just a dog thing. His dogs always wag their tails when they see him.

Finally, what feels like hours and years later – and Will tries not to dwell too long on if he's aging like a dog, too – Hannibal closes his journal and sets it to one side, and gently dislodges Winston's head from his thigh. Will lifts his head, tail wagging again as he watches Hannibal go to every dog and give them a cursory pat on the head, murmuring a 'Good night' to every one of them.

Will has no idea if Hannibal assumes Will does this, or if it's his own compulsion, but it's so _endearing_ he's not sure he wants to know the answer.

When Hannibal gets to him, he cups Will's face with both hands and rubs his thumbs over his ears, and ruffles his scruff. "Good night," he says. Will watches him turn, and leave, and prowls from the couch on silent feet so that, when Hannibal swings the door closed, Will can catch it with a paw and make sure it closes softly enough that it doesn't seal shut.

He sits, and listens to Hannibal cleaning up his human dinner, and the bowls he laid out with more fresh dog food he obviously prepared from scratch. He listens as Hannibal heads upstairs, and his bedroom door closes, and the floorboards creak. Then, a moment later, rushing water like a shower starting.

He moves, then, digging in with his claws until the door creaks open. He noses it the rest of the way open and pads out, back to the kitchen. It's easy to find the spot in the floor again that he found before, but there's no obvious marker of any kind of hatch, or opening that would lead him to the source.

Of course it's not obvious. It's in the middle of a Goddamn kitchen, people come through here all the time.

Will huffs, and begins a thorough back and forth of the kitchen, searching for another potential lead towards the source of the scent. His nose is much more sensitive than it would have been otherwise, and yet, while he can definitely pick up remnants of cleaner that makes his nose sting, he can't figure out any other source of the air, or that iron-like blood scent either.

He hears movement, and freezes, lifting his head to see Winston padding into the kitchen as well. Winston looks at him and licks his nose. Will huffs. Winston tilts his head, and Will walks back over to the original source of the draft.

Winston blinks, and swishes his tail slowly. He's much better at being a dog.

Will lowers himself to the floor and huffs against the opening. Winston trots over, understanding the 'Weird thing here, come look' body language. He noses at the floor beside Will's muzzle, physically nudging Will to one side so he can get a better sniff.

Will watches him, and Winston's ears twitch. He walks carefully towards the island, and then to the right, where there's a door. Will knows that door leads to the pantry. Winston snorts at the bottom of the door, tail wagging. Will rises to all fours and walks over to him.

Will looks up, and rises to his hindlegs, pushing his weight against the handle until it swings down, and the door opens on silent hinges. Winston woofs quietly in victory, and huffs as Will falls on top of him, both of them scrambling to get inside.

Immediately, Will can smell the iron-scent, intermingled with sour grapes, old cork, and cool glass. He scents the air as Winston puts his nose to the floor and goes to the center of the room.

Will sees it. There's a very small give in the line of the wood – since he knows to look for flaws in the flooring, they seem obvious. He walks over to the line of the near-invisible hatch, searching for any kind of latch or mechanism that will trigger its opening.

Will tilts his head, and presses down gingerly on the edge of the hatch. It sinks in, going flush with the floor, and his ears twitch as he hears a soft _click_. When he lifts his paw, the hatch sits a little higher, high enough to fit a toe – or, in Will's case, his nose.

He shoulders the hatch open with Winston's help, and Winston wags his tail, immediately disappearing down the stairs and into the darkness. Will whines in concern – Winston is a dog, and has _some_ self-preservation instincts, he supposes, but he also shouldn't just be running down into a dark room when he has no idea what's in there.

A second later, a light comes on. Motion-sensitive, Will guesses. It reveals the stairs, leading down, and the edge of a cement floor. The scent of blood and cleaner is almost nauseating, to the point where Will has to fight the urge to gag.

He doesn't need to be explaining dog vomit, when and if he ever turns back. And he doesn't want to think about if, as a dog, he'll be compelled to eat it after.

He pads downstairs, more carefully and slower than Winston. Winston is at the back of the room, which is twice as large as Hannibal's kitchen, stretching out underneath his dining room as well. There's a square of raised concrete in the center of the room, and a glass wall beyond it with the vague line of a door. From the ceiling hangs metal hooks, and chains.

Behind the glass wall is a single table, metal, like what Will has seen in the morgue. Across the back wall hang rows and rows of various knives, saws, and other weapons Will hasn't seen outside of torture dungeons.

Winston is nosing around the raised slab. Even from here, Will can see the reddish hue stained into the grout between the tiles. He's not sure what compels him forward, morbid curiosity or denial or maybe a mix of both.

He comes up to Winston's side and sniffs at the -. Yes, blood. His back tenses with a powerful shiver, tail tucking in slightly in unease, ears flat. He looks up at the hooks hanging from the ceiling, to the chains. The drain around the edges of the raised square to allow easier cleaning. The rows and rows of implements hanging from the walls.

Winston doesn't seem to share his concern. But he's just a dog.

Will's ears twitch, as he becomes aware of a sound. Or, rather, the absence of sound. The shower has stopped. He grunts, and nips at Winston's scruff, dragging him towards the stairs. They race up it together and Will shoves the hatch shut. Then, out the pantry door, which he closes as well. He tugs on Winston's ear until they're back in the study and Will can nudge that closed too.

He listens, panting. Above their heads, the floorboards creak as Hannibal gets out of the shower and, presumably, dresses for bed. Will watches the ceiling, waiting for any sign that he will come downstairs and check on them again.

He doesn't. Will, eventually, climbs back onto one of the couches and curls up, his eyes on the door. It takes him a long time to fall asleep.

Will is woken by all the other dogs, which is pretty par for the course and doesn't immediately strike him as odd. Another thing that his brain is quick to remind him of is that he is in Hannibal's house, in Hannibal's study, on Hannibal's couch. With Hannibal in the house. With Hannibal who apparently has a murder dungeon in his basement.

Remembering all these things in quick succession, one might be able to forgive him for taking a moment to register that, when he rolls to his side and sits up, he actually can sit up. And put a hand to his head, rubbing at his sweat-damp hair. That he's no longer warm and encased in fur, but shivering and very much not covered at all.

Those things come slowly. Unfortunately, so slowly that by the time he does realize them, Hannibal has opened the door and is carrying in the dogs' breakfast.

Will flinches in shock, instinctively pulling the couch cover around his body to hide himself. Hannibal freezes in place as well, even as the dogs crowd around him, whining and drooling for breakfast. He simply stares at Will.

Will stares at Hannibal's shoes.

Then, he rasps; "They're going to keep whining if you don't put the bowls down."

That seems to snap some function back into Hannibal. He nods, and sets the bowls down around the fireplace. Will pulls the sheet more tightly around himself, sucking in a harsh breath. He watches Hannibal as Hannibal watches the dogs, slowly drawing to the conclusion Will has been trying to get him to for the last twenty-four hours.

Finally; "Oh."

"Yeah," Will mutters.

Hannibal turns towards him. He regards Will for a long moment, steadily. "A strange turn of events," he notes mildly.

Will's lips twitch. "I tried to tell you."

"You did," Hannibal concedes. He, briefly, gives Will a sheepish expression. "I feel rather foolish for not picking up on it sooner."

"Not every day a guy turns into a dog," Will replies.

Hannibal hums, nodding. He pushes the other couch cover to one side so that he has room to sit. The dogs are eating away, content to ignore them as they wrestle each other for every last morsel.

"Was it…?" Hannibal pauses, visibly struggling to pick the right word, which is not something Will has ever seen him do. "Intentional?" he finally lands on.

Will frowns, and shakes his head. "No, I did not turn myself into a dog or ask to be turned into one."

Hannibal smiles at him. "It gave you a day off," he says lightly. "No one would blame you."

"Yeah, well." Will rubs a hand over his face and sighs. It's nice, he registers absently, to be able to do something as simple as that. He never thought he'd appreciate being able to curl each finger individually before, or making a fist.

He rests his knuckles against his jaw, rubbing at the soreness there. Apparently the change is better done when asleep, if this is how he feels in the morning.

Hannibal tilts his head, and Will's eyes snap to the motion. Hannibal is regarding him with that normal heavy gaze, like he can see much more than skin and hair and motion. Will is very aware that he's only got a large canvas separating him from the outside world.

"Don't suppose you have anything I could wear?" he asks.

Hannibal blinks, and straightens like a machine being powered on. "I brought some clothes from your home," he says.

Will frowns, as Hannibal stands.

"It's not the first time you've come to me in a dissociative state," Hannibal explains. "And I'd like to think that, if you returned home and found all your dogs missing, you would think to ask me, first."

"Is that why you took them?" Will asks. "So that I'd come running to you?"

Hannibal seems to give that question some very serious consideration. His eyes lift from Will's, to the dogs, and then to the fireplace. "That was likely part of it," he admits. "But I also knew that, had they been harmed or taken from you, that would hurt you."

Will doesn't know what to say to that.

Hannibal nods, a moment later, and squeezes Will's shoulder. "I'll fetch some clothes for you, and then you and I can have a proper breakfast. I daresay my other offering is already devoured."

He smiles, and Will looks at the dogs. They seem content, licking at their bowls and breaking off one by one as they realize there is no more food to be had. They'll need to go outside, soon, if they don't already.

"Okay," he manages, when it becomes clear that Hannibal is waiting for an answer. "Thank you."

Hannibal smiles, and releases him, leaving the room. Will stands, wrapping the cover tightly around his body, and clicks his tongue at the dogs, who seem completely unfazed by the return of The Human, and his day-long absence and their relocation to another house.

He leads them to the back door and opens it for them. Winston leaves last, and sits by the door as though guarding it. Will smiles, and pets his head.

He turns and almost jumps out of his damn skin when he sees Hannibal there, holding a small duffle bag. He hands it to Will, who takes it, cheeks warm. "The bathroom is back this way," Hannibal says, and gestures behind him, stepping out of Will's way.

"Thank you," Will says, hoarsely.

Hannibal smiles. "If you'd like to make use of the shower, you can use the guest one upstairs," he offers. Will merely nods; he feels sticky with mud on his palms and the soles of his feet, and his hair is damp from sweat, and he didn't get to shower at all yesterday. A shower would be good.

"Yeah," he says, clearing his throat. "Okay. Thank you."

Hannibal smiles warmly. "Take your time," he says, and squeezes Will's shoulder as he passes. "I'll make us some breakfast. And, if you're agreeable, we can discuss any excitements from yesterday."

Will freezes. He can only see the edge of Hannibal in his periphery.

"Excitements?" he echoes.

Hannibal's voice betrays nothing. "A dog's senses and experiences are unique to ours, and rarely do the twain meet." Will presses his lips together. "I'm sure you could come up with something entertaining to share over breakfast."

Will's heart is racing, and feels too high in his throat. "I could…probably come up with something," he agrees weakly.

"Excellent. I won't keep you."

Will knows an order when he hears one. He heads upstairs and locates the guest bathroom, going inside and closing and locking the door behind him. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, and tries to get a grip on himself.

The cool metal of the door handle between his fingers is something to focus on. As is the wood against his forehead. The way his chest expands when he breathes in, up and down instead of wide. How his shoulders can roll and he can put his arms out to either side of him. How his knees bend the right way again.

He's a human now. Which means he can fight like one, if that's what it comes down to.

He sheds the cover and sets the bag on the bathroom sink. Hannibal packed him a plain white t-shirt and a pair of jeans, some underwear, socks. Will internally grimaces at the idea of Hannibal rooting around in his underwear drawer.

But, considering that the man has a Goddamn _murder dungeon_ , that should be the least of Will's problems.

He turns on the water and steps in while it's still cold, shivering and scratching his fingers through his hair until his scalp feels raw. One might think being a dog for a day is the craziest thing that could have happened to Will in the last twenty-four hours. But no, of course he has to then find out that his friend, not-therapist, and now dog-sitter – and self-sitter? Probably – has an entire dungeon full of weapons and shit to do physical harm to people, and there's evidence of blood, meaning it's definitely – _recently_ – been put to use.

Will grits his teeth, bowing his head so he doesn't start swallowing water. He doesn't bother with the guest shampoo or body wash lining the edge of the shower, he doesn't need to start smelling like Hannibal's house.

He turns the water off and towel dries with a vehemence that makes his skin red and sensitive, before throwing the towel back over the rack and dressing as quickly as he can. He leaves the cover in the room, as well as the bag, since it's not his.

He doesn't want to think about Hannibal just _having_ a bag around to put things in from people's houses.

He doesn't want to think about much of anything.

When he steps out of the bathroom, the scent of roasting meat is so strong and _so_ tempting he feels sick with it.

He goes downstairs.

Hannibal is in his kitchen, standing on top of the hole in the floor, his back turned to Will. There's something in the oven; the light is on. There's something cooking and sizzling on top of the stove.

"I hope you'll forgive the lack of flair," Hannibal says over his shoulder. "I didn't think you'd had much to eat yesterday. I'm sure you're hungry."

"Starving," Will says quietly.

Hannibal turns, and smiles at him. "Good." Will nods, and approaches the kitchen island. He stops on the other side of it, so it remains between him and Hannibal. Hannibal has bottled juice set out on the counter, along with glasses already half-filled with ice. There are three choices for Will to take at his leisure.

So, too, it seems there is a choice ahead of him. He could get ahead of it all and confess, and ask, and hope Hannibal offers him something reasonable. And be prepared for the worst if he doesn't. He could remain silent, and wait until Hannibal brings it up himself.

He could try to leave, and hope Hannibal lets him.

He doesn't want to think about the likelihood of that last option.

Hannibal finishes fixing them breakfast, either oblivious to or ignoring Will's internal struggle. Probably the latter. He may not be versed in reading Will-as-dog, but he knows human-Will very well. He takes whatever's in the oven, out, the smell of cheese and potatoes settling heavily on the back of Will's tongue. He plates slices of them, heavy and dripping with white cheese, alongside three fat sausage links, that are crisp and black on the outside, bursting at the skin to reveal the reddish flesh beneath.

Will swallows. His mouth is watering. "Those look fresh," he says.

"Homemade," Hannibal tells him.

Of course they are.

"You feed my dogs as well as you feed me," Will says.

Hannibal pauses, and nods once. "Your dogs are…precious to you," he murmurs. "I would afford them the same level of care I could give anyone whom I hold in high regard."

High regard, Will thinks. High enough to die from the fall.

"I'm sure they'd thank you, if they could talk."

Hannibal smiles. "I'll take your thanks for them."

Will wants to laugh, but if he does, he might not stop. They're standing right on top of Hannibal's basement and acting like nothing is wrong. Will is going to eat at his table and pretend like nothing is wrong.

"Shall we?" Hannibal asks, taking the plates in hand. Wordlessly, Will grabs the juice and glasses, and lets Hannibal herd him into the dining room. Below them, this is where the wall of weapons was, and the empty table.

They sit. The food smells wonderful and Will's stomach is starting to cramp with hunger.

Hannibal smiles at him. "Is there anywhere you'd like to start?" he asks.

"About my day?" Will replies.

"Yes. I'm frightfully curious, Will."

Will sucks in a breath through his teeth, staring down at the food. "Not really sure where to start," he says quietly.

"Well," Hannibal replies, and takes Will's glass, choosing a juice for him and pouring it to full. "Perhaps you could start with your night. Were you awake for the transformation?"

"No," Will says. "Either way."

Hannibal considers this. "So you were asleep when you changed from man, to dog, and back again." Will nods. "So you were a dog when you entered my kitchen, broke into my pantry, and had a look around the basement."

Will is proud of himself for how he manages not to react to that. "That's correct."

"This puts me in a difficult position, Will," Hannibal says, and sets Will's juice down on a coaster. Will nods, and doesn't say anything in reply. "From your answers, and your behavior, you seem to have retained full memory of your time as an animal."

"Yes."

"You seem untroubled," Hannibal continues.

"Oh, I'm really fucking troubled," Will replies, finally looking up and meeting Hannibal's eyes. "But I'm not sure how you're going to react, either. So I'm biding my time."

"Observing," Hannibal says, and smiles. "You did that as a dog, too."

"Safest bet."

"Mm."

Will watches, and waits, as Hannibal pours himself a glass of juice as well, apparently not at all disturbed by the fact that Will turned into a dog for a day and snooped around his basement. Will has no illusions about what he saw there, and he's sure Hannibal doesn't either.

"So what happens now?" Will asks.

"I suppose that's up to you," Hannibal replies, tilting his head. It makes Will feel slightly better when he takes a drink, from the same bottle he gave Will. The juice isn't poisoned or laced, at least. The ice cubes, maybe. "You have a choice to make, Will – be silent, speak up, or…."

Will bites the inside of his lower lip. "Or?"

"If you're curious," Hannibal says slowly, "I'm sure there's more you could figure out. As a person, not an animal."

Will stares at him. It feels like he's been doing a lot of that these days.

Only this time, he can actually say, "You're serious."

"Deadly," Hannibal replies. Will feels that hysterical laugh shift an inch higher. He touches the condensation on the glass and wipes a thumb over it. The cold is grounding, centering.

He sighs. "Is my life a condition of being curious, or silent?" he asks.

"No more than your dogs' lives are conditional to remaining with you," Hannibal says, which isn't exactly an answer. "They may choose to leave you, and fend for themselves. Or they can remain, knowing they are cared for, and treated like the precious things they are."

Will meets his eyes. Hannibal doesn't look away, doesn't blink.

"What do you say, Will?" Hannibal presses.

Will's lips twitch. "I guess, for now, I'll just stay silent," he says, and lifts his glass, and takes a drink. "And observe."

Hannibal's smile is wide, and he sits back with a sigh, and a decisive nod. "Good," he says, warmly. "Then eat your breakfast, and we'll begin."


End file.
